It seems only appropriate to subsume Thanksgiving into my general shabbos rule of no financial reading or activities, so I noted with delight that this week's Economist (which, as per usual, had arrived belatedly but just in time to my work mailbox on Tuesday) contains the magazine's books of the year section, historically a fine source of good additions to my book list, which Herr Bezos continues, bless his heart, to maintain for me free of explicit charge, though of course it just makes me spend more time on his platform.
So after breakfast I began reading an Ann Patchett piece in the New Yorker (never really read much by her though I think I have a book of hers around here somewhere) when I thought I had in fact better press forward in my mystery novel. Then I heard the voice of Blue echoing in my head "if you're reading, you're not writing," a true fact if ever there was one.
In any case, Natalie has now joined me on the couch post-breakfast and happily accepted my offer of half of this fuzzy blanket that covers my legs. Graham came over for dinner last night but had, not atypically, failed to pack clothes or anything to stay with us and went back over to his place after reading in the living room with Mary till around 11. Mostly I think he went back there so as not to leave alone Saber, the free-range cat that the UNC Quiz Bowl house has adopted as its own. She is a fine cat.
No comments:
Post a Comment